


No Sword in Our Lake (just a funeral wake)

by BardsBeBardin924



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Grief/Mourning, POV Gwen (Merlin), Queen Gwen (Merlin), Survivor Guilt, description of corpses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-14
Updated: 2021-01-14
Packaged: 2021-03-12 11:54:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28759902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BardsBeBardin924/pseuds/BardsBeBardin924
Summary: A fragmented Camelot reels in the immediate aftermath of the battle at Camlann. Queens, Knights, and Sorcerers come together to fight through their grief to do the one thing they know: live, and live, and live some more, for those who are no longer able.
Comments: 8
Kudos: 16
Collections: Merlin Bingo





	No Sword in Our Lake (just a funeral wake)

Gwen awoke that first morning to a cold and stiff bed. Her arm stretched out, seeking out a familiar warmth.

The bed was empty.

She rose with a start, reaching out with a panic, looking for her love’s form.

Then, she remembered.

She settled, heaving out a heavy sigh. With a firm shove, she lifted herself from the bed, going to the chamber window. Her fingers fiddled with the silver ring on her thumb.

_He’s out there,_ she said to herself. She looked across the courtyard; it was in shambles. Soldiers, friends, and physicians, all sprawled on the stone. Some remained still, others wailed with an unimaginable grief, and some said final goodbyes before drawing white sheets over unmoving forms.

_He has to be out there,_ she thought again.

She turned away; she could not bear to watch a moment longer. Walking to her wardrobe, she searched with numb hands for something, anything, to wear.

At the back of the wardrobe, her fingers brushed against a familiar light blue material, soft and worn to the touch. She pulled it forward without much thought. Today, she needed familiar. Comfort.

She started to pull it on, slipping the fabric over her torso. It settled over her like a hug from an old friend, and the breath in her chest loosened the slightest bit.

Her hands fiddled with the laces at her back. The ribbons kept slipping loose – she couldn’t find purchase.

“Damn,” she hissed, pulling against the laces in vain. “Merlin,” she called over her shoulder, “can you help me – ”

She stopped short.

He wasn’t there.

She _knew_ he wasn’t there.

She knew where he was, what he had done. For her. For Arthur. For their kingdom, even if it was the last thing he ever did.

And yet, she had forgotten.

She clenched her jaw, fighting down the guilt rising, threatening to overtake her.

Forgetting the laces, she braced herself against her vanity, willing the breath in and out of her lungs. She dug her fingers into the wooden surface, her knuckles turning pale with the tension.

“He’s out there,” she repeated, yet again. Like a prayer.

A knock rang against the chamber door.

She stood with a start, unconsciously straightening her hair, fiddling with her bodice. “Who is it?” she said, hoping her wavering tone would not betray her.

“Sir Leon, Your Majesty,” came a gentle, muffled voice.

Relief flooded her at once, and she walked over to the chamber door. Pulling it open, she revealed Leon.

Though he gave her a smile, his features spoke of the same emotions she hoped to hide. Dark circles under his green eyes stood stark against his dull face, cheeks hollow. His eye twitched, just slightly, from the never-ending exhaustion of recovering from battle. He was dressed simply, wearing nothing more than a brown tunic and black trousers. His hair swept unkempt into his eyes, and he brushed it out of the way.

“May I come in?” he asked, holding a platter of food to her by way of an offering; grapes, cheeses, breads, and plums all crowded the plate.

Gwen smiled, though she knew hers was just as empty as his. “Please,” she said, standing aside. Without allowing Leon too much time to look her over, she headed back towards her vanity, ducking behind the wall. She hoped to all the gods that she could just tie her blasted laces and get on with her day.

“I brought breakfast,” Leon said, his voice meek, fragile even. A clatter from the room told Gwen he had haphazardly placed down the tray.

“I noticed,” she said. She couldn’t bother with the trappings of court etiquette, not with her damned dress misbehaving. Her hand slipped, and she cursed.

“Everything alright?” Leon asked.

Gwen paused. _What a word,_ she thought. _Alright._

Her thoughts went back to the last time she saw Arthur. His hurried panic, jerking him from sleep into action. The battle, crashing through the physician’s tent. The blood, the gore, the stench of death, covering her, soaking into her clothes. She thought of the way her stomach turned as she hefted a lifeless body into a cart to return to Camelot.

She thought of the godforsaken laces that refused to bow to her will.

“Your Majesty?” Leon asked, a bit more tentative. Footsteps came closer, and Gwen could see the shadow of his feet through the vanity wall.

She felt the pinpricks of tears in her eyes. The stinging pain of utter exhaustion, worry, sadness. Too much for one person to carry. She swallowed. “Can you just help me tie up my laces, Leon?” Her voice was thickened with the tears she bit back.

He didn’t answer right away, but she saw his feet shift. He took in a breath. “Of course, my lady,” he said. But again, he didn’t move, not right away.

Gwen leaned back against the wall with a huff, biting her cheek, hoping the pain would chase her heavy heart away. Just for a moment.

“So,” Leon began, “erm… Shall you come around here, or – ”

“Oh for gods sake, Leon, get back here,” Gwen said, words spilling out of her. Any hope of a filter gone, dead, buried.

“Certainly,” Leon said. He poked his head around, as though unsure where to look.

Gwen turned to face the wall, bracing against the stone. “Get on with it,” she said, hoping to coat her worry with venom.

“Whatever you need, Gwen.” His patience never seemed to dwindle.

She softened, just a bit, at his use of her name.

He stepped forward, taking the laces in hand. He pulled them tight and snug against her torso. With care, he secured her bodice – taking his time, but using it deliberately. When he finished, he asked, “How does that feel?”

She nodded, turning her face to his. “Just fine,” she said. She couldn’t bear to meet his gaze. “Thank you, Leon.” She walked over to the table.

She ate the food, not tasting a bite before her.

Leon picked at a bunch of grapes, his face sallow.

Time passed in silence.

They each took a breath, reaching out to look at each other.

“I just wanted to say – ”

“Gwen, I need you to know – ”

They stopped short, surprised.

“Please, go ahead – ”

“Don’t let me keep you – ”

They halted again. Gwen bit down on her tongue, and the ghost of a smile danced in Leon’s eyes.

And then, the most miraculous thing happened.

They laughed.

Deep down in their bellies, their laughter rose, absurd and perfect in the stark cold of the chambers. Tears rolled down Gwen’s cheeks, and Leon clutched at a stitch in his side.

But all-too-soon, it ended.

And all-too-painful, Gwen’s tears did not stop.

Her laughter, contorted to sobs, moved through her. She couldn’t hope to push them down, no matter how hard she tried.

Leon went to her at once, sitting by her side. He wrapped her in his arms, rocking her softly. He whispered to her, “I know, Gwen, I know,” a comforting stream of nonsense words.

She lost herself.

She felt her heart tearing, shredding, in her chest.

Somehow, in the midst of that pain, she knew.

She felt him leave her, like a boat leaves its shore.

And through it all, Leon held her. He never let go. Not for a moment.

~~~

After that morning, Leon moved into Gwen’s chambers. He set up a bedroll at the foot of her bed, like one of the Guardians of Old.

Or the family dog.

Leon had a way like that: an imposing and powerful presence protecting a trusting and loyal heart.

Leon stayed by her side, and Gwen leaned on him to help her through the days as they came.

She had a kingdom to run, after all. Funerals to attend. Feasts to organize. Soldiers to count.

One day, Gwen heard a commotion arise in the courtyard. She took off, Leon at her heels.

A massive crowd of crimson, silver, and gold blocked the main gates to the castle. Voices clambered over each other, an indistinguishable sea of noise and bodies.

Over them all, Gwen saw the tear-stained face of Sir Percival, pushing into the castle. His face contorted over itself, his torment apparent even from afar.

Her stomach dropped.

“Please, let me pass,” Percival’s strained voice rose above the others, his anguish clear as day. “I must have an audience with the queen,” he begged. His word were wild, frantic.

Her eyes locked with his. “Let him through,” she commanded.

Almost in unison, the guards parted to the sides of the corridor upon hearing the voice of their queen.

There, Percival stood.

For Gwen, time froze. The world turned to fog; she floated through its impermanence. Somewhere, she heard Leon’s cries of sorrow behind her.

She felt nothing but numb upon seeing Gwaine’s limp body in Percival’s arms. Another part of her, dead, before her very eyes.

Percival’s lip quivered. “I’m so sorry, Your Majesty,” he said, barely above a whisper. “I was too late, I couldn’t save him, I couldn’t save him, I couldn’t, I’m sorry,” he continued, his words turning to whispers, his head bowing forward, his weight crashing to his knees, his friend’s body cradled against his chest.

Leon went to him, placing a hand on both Percival and Gwaine’s shoulders, his own shaking without control.

Gwen looked down, her blood running cold. “Prepare the burial ceremony,” Gwen said to no one in particular. “We will tend to his body before nightfall.”

She left them there, to grieve over one of their lost, as she glided back to her chambers.

Some time later, Leon returned. Gwen assumed she probably should have had a meal at some point when she noticed the platter of food Leon brought. Even then, in the storm of his mourning, he was thinking of what she might need.

She wasn’t sure she deserved it.

He dropped it down, cheese and bread scattering across the table. He sat in the chair, his swollen, red-rimmed eyes unseeing.

She sat next to him, placing a hand on his. He took it, squeezing hard. It hurt, but Gwen barely felt the pain.

He looked to her, his eyes desperate and lost. “How much more must we endure?” he pleaded of her. “Was any of this worth it?”

She had no answer for him.

She wasn’t sure if she ever would.

In a haze of time, the two of them prepared for Gwaine’s funeral. Gwen put on her velvet black burial dress, well-worn over the past few years. It made her sick, just to think of how comfortable the dress felt after its frequent use. Below, in the courtyard, Gwen watched as servants built up the wooden fire structure. A stab of pain shot through her heart, but it faded to a dull throb in an instant. There’s only so much emotion a person can bear before the mind starts casting it away.

She looked to Leon, who had donned his ceremonial black cape. His eyes were hollow. Dark.

Despite it all, he tried to smile.

“Are you ready?” she asked, walking closer to him.

“No,” he replied, the tears again welling up. His smile grew, the corner of his mouth trembling.

“Neither am I,” she said, holding out her arm for him to take. “Shall we?”

A muscle in Leon’s jaw jumped. He nodded, a tear running down his cheek. He slapped it away, placing his hand through the loop of her arm. Together, they walked to the courtyard.

At the front of the small gathering, they found Percival had already settled in the courtyard, kneeling before the large wooden pile. Gwen went to one side, Leon the other.

The three of them knelt together, waiting.

Then, the drums came.

Percival took Gwen’s hand in his, squeezing.

It hurt, and she didn’t care.

From within the citadel emerged a group of servants, all bearing Gwaine’s body on their shoulders.

_He’s sleeping,_ Gwen told herself. _He’s dreaming of one last night in the tavern, with Lancelot, with Elyan, with –_

She couldn’t finish the thought.

Gwaine’s corpse slid into place.

Geoffrey, the court scribe, recited the ancient burial prayer.

Percival began to shake.

Or maybe it was Gwen.

Then, the world turned to flame. The air filled with the acrid scent of burning, rotting flesh.

Gwen fought back the urge to retch. Her eyes stung, watery tears flowing free down her cheeks.

The three of them – Leon, Percival, and Gwen – remained there, knelt before their fallen friend, long after the embers burned low and there was nothing left but bones. And even then, they stayed, when the servants of Camelot’s tombs came to gather and prepare what remained.

_How can a kingdom survive such loss?_ Gwen wondered.

That night, Percival joined Leon on the floor of Gwen’s chambers. And there he stayed.

~~~

Merlin returned two days later.

Gwen learned of his arrival when Leon burst through her chamber door, eyes wild, auburn hair flying in all directions.

“Merlin’s back,” he said, breathless.

There was no mention of Arthur.

Gwen knew there wouldn’t be.

And still, there was a spark of hope. Merlin, always working in the shadows, always doing the impossible. Merlin, her friend, who sacrificed more than he could bear. “Where?” she asked, straightening herself out.

“Gaius’ chambers,” Leon said, his voice darkened. “Gwen, you should know – ”

“Take me to him now,” Gwen said, pushing past Leon into the hall. She dared not hear what she knew spoken aloud.

She wasn’t sure her heart could bear such pain.

The two of them rushed through the halls and into Gaius’ chambers, unannounced.

There, Merlin sat. Small, hunched, curled in on himself, he shrank before the fire. Gaius crouched by his side, draping a blanket across his shoulders, muttering something into his ear. He ran a comforting hand on Merlin’s shivering shoulders. Neither of them seemed to care that their queen had entered the room.

But this day, Gwen was no queen.

She walked over, tentative on her feet, to sit next to her old friend. His icy eyes were bloodshot and glazed over, either from seeing too much, or seeing nothing at all. His entire being seemed to shrink under an unseen weight that hollowed out his cheeks and sent his muscles quaking.

“I’m so sorry, Gwen,” he whispered. Tears welled up in his eyes, and he let them fall, unhindered.

In that moment, without another doubt, she knew.

To her surprise, she felt relief. At not having to question anymore. At not having to obsess or worry herself through the night.

All that remained was the mourning.

“I thought I could save him,” Merlin hissed, his shaking growing more violent. His face contorted into something raw and wounded. “I thought I could save him,” he said again, louder. His eyes turned to glittering gold, and the fire before them warmed, angry flames licking the top of the hearth.

_Magic,_ Gwen thought with a flash of wondrous fear. But even so, she placed a firm hand on his shoulder, and he startled at the contact. She squeezed his shoulder, harder than what could be considered friendly reassurance.

Over the course of a few breaths, Merlin’s muscles stilled, his eyes emptied, leaving behind greying irises.

“Don’t do this to yourself, Merlin,” Gwen said, holding her voice steady. 

He looked at her, his cold gaze seeking out her warmth.

She knew she had none to give.

“Come,” she said. Rising up to stand, she tugged on his arm, urging him up as well.

He sat, unmoving.

“You’re staying with me tonight,” she said, pushing away the encroaching waves of sadness, seeking to pull her under to where she would never resurface.

“I can’t,” he whispered, shaking his head.

“I need you by my side,” she said, voice cracking. Her vision grew foggy, her damned emotions too close to spilling out. “I need my closest friend, Merlin. I need you.”

He hesitated, drawing the blanket tighter around his shoulders.

She sighed, biting down on her lip and looking up to the ceiling. She’d rather die herself than let another tear fall, today, or any day to come.

“Please?” she asked. She begged.

A queen does not beg.

She knew this.

Merlin knew this.

But this day, Gwen was no queen.

And then, Merlin looked up. And he saw not a queen, but his oldest friend, the person he loved more than himself. His friend who needed him.

So, he stood, swaying on his feet. He took her hand, squeezing it so hard it hurt.

The sharp sting was a welcome comfort to Gwen.

He led the widow on, following Leon up to the sanctuary of the survivors, the royal chambers. He pulled her to the bed, and he laid her down. She urged him down next to her. He obliged, settling against her side.

“Stay with me,” she whispered, keeping a tight hold on his hand.

He grew stiff beside her, and another tremor rocked through him. “As long as you need, Gwen.”

She nodded, and she let herself be pulled, finally, into the churning sea of grief. Gwen lost herself to it, crashing through the waves.

The four of them – Leon, Percival, Merlin, and Gwen – remained in the royal chambers for a fortnight. Gwen conducted meetings from her chambers with only those around her and her two closest council members: Gaius and Geoffrey. She mainly nodded and signed papers the two of them brought to her. She wasn’t sure what they were for, but she trusted that they wouldn’t let her make any catastrophic decisions during her grieving. They also brought her the gifts of condolences from across the kingdom: flowers, letters, platters of food, fine fabrics, jewels.

None of them, bless them, spoke of the victory against Morgana and the Saxons. The grief of losing Camelot’s king was thick across Albion. None of them dared strike the citadel, even though it was crumbling.

Their allies gave Gwen the greatest of gifts: time.

And pass it did, during her time of mourning, in strange ways. Servants woke up their small group in the mornings and force bread and water down their throats. The meetings seemed to be over before they even began. The days grew shorter and shorter, most of their time spent silently existing in the candlelight.

One night, there came a knock at the door.

“Enter,” Leon said, his voice a haze.

A young serving girl opened the door, tentatively peeking around its opening. Her eyes flashed over to where Gwen lay curled up in a ball at the foot of her bed, with Merlin pressed against her back, a protective presence.

“What is it?” Leon asked, calling her attention away from the queen.

“The council has requested Queen Pendragon’s presence in the throne room,” the serving girl said, gaze flitting back to where Gwen remained catatonic.

“I will go on her behalf,” Leon said, rising up to stand.

“Um,” the girl protested, “the council did ask for Queen Pendragon specifically.”

“ _The council,_ ” Leon spat, “can shove it, for all I care.”

Leon left the chambers.

Gwen hardly noticed him go.

Then, an hour passed.

Then, two.

When he returned, he was laden with large, thick, glass bottles of dark liquid. His breaths came in angry huffs, and he slammed the door shut with a loud _clang._

Gwen jolted upright with a start, Merlin following suit, a hand extended in habitual protection. He settled at once when he realized it was only Leon.

She watched as Leon set the bottles down with a clatter onto the dining table. He grabbed for one at random, popped the cork off, and took a deep swig. Without saying a word, he brought a bottle to Merlin, Gwen, and Percival, who was sat on the floor beside her bed.

“What’s the special occasion?” Percival asked, uncorking his own drink.

Leon looked to Gwen, fuming with anger. “Your coronation.” He held his bottle up to her by way of apology.

Her jaw fell open, and her heart sank into the acid of her stomach.

Percival snorted, chocking on the drink he was already chugging.

Merlin grew deathly still next to Gwen. “You can’t be serious,” he said, voice hoarse from disuse.

Leon took another drink, hissing as he swallowed it down. “The _council_ ,” he growled, “has decided, based on a majority vote, that apparently it is time you formally assumed your royal duties, and – _and I quote –_ ‘stopped wallowing like a love-struck maid’.”

Percival spit his drink across the room at that.

Gwen felt her face grow hot, a mixture of anger and embarrassment rolling through her.

“This is how they speak of their queen?” Merlin asked, his words dark and dangerous.

Leon nodded, pacing back and forth across the room. “ _The council_ feels that we have been – to put it lightly – _coddling_ you for too long.”

Gwen scoffed, shaking her head. _How could I have let this happen?_ She wondered.

The room fell silent around her, all the eyes of her friends looking to her. Steeling herself, she uncorked the bottle, swallowing down the sickly-sweet drink. She had no idea what it was, but it burned, and that helped pull her back to shore.

She took a deep breath. “When?” she asked.

“Tomorrow morning,” Leon said. He squinted over at the dwindling time marks on the candle. “Which, by the looks of things, is in just a few hours. So, later on today might be more accurate.”

With another breath, she pulled herself out of the sea of grief, shoving the endless mourning to the back of her mind. She nodded. “Then we must prepare.”

Merlin helped her wrangle her knotted, matted hair. He sent out servants to draw a bath scented with lavender – Gwen’s favorite. He helped wash her, dry her, nourish her hair with oils, and soften her skin with one of Gaius’ comfrey salves.

Leon set about organizing what was left to plan for the coronation: namely, the location of Gwen’s ceremonial crown.

Percival searched through Gwen’s wardrobe, laying out an elegant crimson red dress with ornate golden jewelry. Both he and Merlin helped her shimmy into the dress as the sun began to rise over Camelot.

Merlin did up her laces without even being asked. His practiced hands brought the bodice tight against her torso, snug, just how she preferred.

The sunrise shone in through Gwen’s window, ringing her in golden light. The morning sun reflected off her silken dress.

She was the glowing image of a powerful Pendragon queen.

Merlin and Percival looked her over, adjusting a hair here, wiping away a piece of lint there. They stepped away as Leon entered the room, and when he laid his eyes on her, awe spilled across his face. While he was gone, he had donned his ceremonial chain mail. Though it hung a bit looser around his frame, there was no denying the warrior’s strength and pride.

“Are you ready?” Leon asked. His voice hushed, as though entering into a sacred space.

Now that Gwen looked around at her friends, she noticed that Percival had also donned his full ceremonial armor. His eyes shined bright, sparkling with the sunrise.

Merlin, even, wore a fine red jacket, a deep blue kerchief tucked around his neck. On his face was the rarest and most beautiful thing: hope, rising under the surface.

Gwen took a breath. As she looked herself up and down and scanned the faces of her steady and supporting friends, she nodded.

“I’m ready.”

**Author's Note:**

> The title of this work comes from the song "Weights and Measures," by Dry the River.


End file.
